


Village Idiot

by bunniewabbit



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: Canon, M/M, Post-Split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunniewabbit/pseuds/bunniewabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon looks from Ryan to Brendon and back again. "Guys. <b>Seriously?</b>"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Village Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> I began this about a month after the announcement of the split, and then put it aside for a long time. The fact that I finished it merely proves that reality has very little bearing on what goes on in my brain. Also: girlfriends, schmirlfriends.

 

It's a bit surreal, recording demos with no one there with him but Spencer. Every time Brendon turns around, catches movement from the corner of his eye, or even senses a presence, he half expects to find Ryan or Jon there when he looks to see who it is. Eventually, he becomes accustomed to the fact that it's Spencer, and only ever Spencer, solid and dependable and determined to keep things moving forward, and it becomes less surreal and more and more normal.

Even so, Brendon still hears the _Thank you_ in the back of his brain, but is careful to never let it slip past his lips, because he knows Spencer will just tell him he's an idiot, and that Spencer's not sticking around as a favor to Brendon or any stupid shit like that. Brendon gets that, he does. And yet he can't help but be really fucking grateful that he's not alone in this, that he's got someone who's not only reliable and a great business partner, but is one of his best friends, as well, the only best friend who made the decision to cast his lot with Brendon, for better or worse.

And, as it turns out, Spencer is also a pretty awesome collaborator. The writing part of things has not been that weird: Brendon is used to writing songs alone, though now he has to push himself to make them last longer than his typical two minutes or so. But both of them were pleasantly surprised to find that Spencer brought some unique and creative ideas to the writing process, neither of them voicing the obvious conclusion that it took the absence of Ryan's domineering presence to let that talent shine through. There's enough of a ghost of that presence around without making it more solid and obtrusive by talking about it, anyway.

Besides, that part doesn't matter; what matters is that this really seems to be _working_ , and Brendon allows himself to feel relieved during random, solitary moments, feeling the _Thank you_ bumping around in his head without acknowledging whether or not it's directed at anyone in particular.

Things get surreal again when temporary bandmates Ian and Dallon join Brendon and Spencer in Brendon's music room to practice for the upcoming tour. Dallon is quick to catch on, and funny, and Brendon knows Ian well enough to be able to pick on him in a little-brother-he-never-had sort of way (and in truth, Brendon is kind of getting a kick -- not to mention a nudge to his competitive instincts -- out of having someone in the band who can pretty much play circles around him), so it's fun, and it's good, but it's also just really _bizarre_. It's bizarre to not have Jon's warm, comfortable presence, bizarre to be playing Ryan's songs without Ryan, to unconsciously and habitually sneak looks in Ryan's direction, only to find that it's not Ryan at all, it's _Ian_. And it's bizarre and disconcerting to be forced to recognize how often Brendon actually sneaks those looks, considering how long ago he got used to shoving that particular set of feelings aside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ryan had little patience for what he saw as Brendon's reckless experimentation with alcohol in the early days of touring. Brendon wasn't about to stop, though, enjoying the feeling of being drunk on both liquor and freedom, but Ryan's disapproving glares never failed to elicit an uncomfortable blend of defiance and guilt in the center of Brendon's chest, disrupting the happy, hazy flow of his alcohol-induced buzz.

Once, Brendon had stumbled back onto the bus after indulging in an after-show party with The Academy Is... and had been surprised to find Ryan still up and sitting in the front lounge, folded into a ball of protective limbs. Ryan's eyes skittered away from his, and he looked so unhappy that Brendon found himself dropping down on the bench next to him, biting his lip hard in an attempt to still the spinning of his head as he tried to figure out what he should do next.

"Hey," he said softly, rubbing the pads of his thumbs and fingers together nervously when Ryan steadfastly refused to look at him. His fingertips were numb, tingly, and Brendon reached out without thinking to touch the knee of Ryan's sleep pants, just to see if he could feel the texture of the soft cotton. Ryan startled a little and turned toward Brendon, jerking his leg out from under Brendon's hand. He stared at Brendon, arms remaining crossed over his chest, and the line of his mouth was so hard and angry that Brendon, in a move born of remorse and desperation, leaned forward and pressed his lips to it. Ryan's throat made a tiny, surprised sound at the same time his arms unfolded and flailed out as if he were trying to catch his balance.

Brendon's brain was moving sluggishly, focused solely on trying to fix whatever was wrong with Ryan. By the time his thoughts caught up with his actions and he got past the stunned realization that he had actually _kissed_ Ryan Ross, he had no doubt that he had just fucked up beyond all redemption. With guilt flooding hotly through him, Brendon backed away quickly, flinching when Ryan's long fingers closed around his upper arms and squeezed almost painfully when he tried to pull away. Brendon kept his eyes averted, couldn't bear to see the anger and revulsion on Ryan's face.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he blurted, his stomach clenching queasily. He didn't understand why Ryan didn't just hit him or something and get it over with.

"Brendon," Ryan said, and when Brendon didn't respond, repeated it through clenched teeth, harsh and frustrated. Despite himself, Brendon turned to look; Ryan's expression was furious, but also hurt. Wincing at the fresh wave of guilt and nausea, Brendon started babbling. "Sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I'm drunk and stupid and _so_ sorry. Fuck." He clamped his eyes shut, unable to keep looking at what seemed to be pain on Ryan's face. "Can we just pretend that never happened?"

"You're not going to remember this tomorrow, anyway," he heard Ryan say, voice low. Then, to Brendon's surprise, there was the soft pressure of lips against his -- _Ryan's_ lips -- and when his mouth dropped open in shock, Ryan used the opportunity to slide his tongue inside, and Brendon felt like every synapse in his brain fired at once.

Suddenly dizzy in earnest, Brendon sucked a breath through his nose and groped with his hands until he found Ryan's t-shirt. He knotted his fingers in the fabric, needing the anchor in spite of Ryan's steadying grasp on his biceps. He kissed Ryan back with increasing desperation, wet and messy, his mind chanting _more-more-more_ and _don't stop, don't stop_ , his body sparking to life and losing its lethargy.

In a moment of crystalline clarity, Brendon became aware of wanting something he'd never thought to want before, a desire he hadn't known existed. Pressing forward greedily, he loosened his grip on Ryan's shirt and wound his arms around Ryan's back, pulling him closer. With a sound like a choked moan, Ryan wrapped his arms around Brendon's neck, threading his long fingers into Brendon's hair and tugging lightly.

Their kisses deepened, becoming slow and filled with intent. Brendon half climbed into Ryan's lap, heat sizzling through his veins, feeding his arousal; he rolled his hips forward and down against Ryan, groaning helplessly at the pressure and friction. Ryan's hands flew down to Brendon's hips, pulling him down even as Ryan strained up against him. _This is what bliss feels like_ , Brendon thought. _This is perfection_. The last strands of disbelief were slipping away, slowly being replaced by a cautious happiness, when it was all over as abruptly as it had begun.

Between one breath and the next, Brendon found himself sprawled on the bench with Ryan standing over him, panting, his eyes a little wild as Brendon gaped up at him. Ryan dragged the back of a trembling hand across his mouth and let it fall limply at his side. "You should stop drinking," he said, voice flat, and turned away.

Brendon blinked, at a loss for words, though his brain was protesting ridiculously with _No, no, I'll never stop drinking. Not if it gets me this!_ On his way out of the lounge, Ryan paused, not quite looking over his shoulder as he said, "Go to bed, Brendon." He ducked into his bunk and was gone, and Brendon sat and tried to remember how to breathe.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's only their second day of rehearsing with Dallon and Ian, but they already sound like a _band_ , like they know what they're doing and belong together. When he's in the zone, Brendon actually finds that he can believe it; the problem is that he's feeling a bit off his game, though, disconcerted not so much by having people in the band that he's not used to as he is by _not_ having people that he is.

He'd made a conscious decision to keep Jon and Ryan out of this thoughts as much as possible in recent weeks, and he'd been fairly successful. But playing Panic songs with people who aren't them is making it impossible to avoid thinking about them.

So far today they've plowed their way through three songs without incident, but they're on their second run-through of "Time to Dance" and Ian misses his line again, so Brendon cuts them off.

"Hey, you did it again, R-- Ian." _Shit_. "'Give me envy, give me malice,' remember?"

"I know, sorry," Ian apologizes, sheepish.

"No big. Again, from 'Boys will be boys,' okay?"

Spencer counts them back in, but Brendon barely notices when Ian nails his part perfectly. Brendon almost called Ian by Ryan's name. How fucked up was that? He's barely even thought about Ryan in ages, but today he can't seem to get Ryan out of his head. It seems like it should be easier to keep Ryan out of his thoughts now that they aren't even in the same band anymore.

Brendon stops cold, his fingers caught on a chord and his mouth hanging open.

_Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck._

The rest of the band stumbles to a halt as Brendon just stands there as if he's been frozen in carbonite.

"Brendon?" says Spencer uncertainly.

Brendon mentally shakes himself and ducks out from under his guitar strap. "Look, I've gotta. There's something I gotta go do." He nearly trips over the microphone stand as he scrambles for the door, dodging instruments and cords. "You guys will be okay without me for awhile, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he barrels out the door and out of the house, only stopping to take a deep breath when he reaches his car.

He digs his phone out of his pocket; he needs to call, knows he needs that commitment, or he is going to lose his nerve and turn around before he gets there. He leans against the side of the car and thumbs the phone's keypad, drumming his fingers impatiently on the roof of the car as he waits for the call to go through.

_"Well, this is a surprise."_

"Hey, are you home?"

_"Yeah, we're rehearsing. Why--"_

"I'm coming over. I need to talk to you."

_"Brendon, what's--"_

"Just don't, like, fucking _leave_ , or anything. I'm on my way."

Brendon hangs up and gets in the car.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The cool of the tabletop felt good against Brendon's cheek, though it did little to relieve his hangover. Not moving was good, though, so that was what he was doing.

The sun was only just starting to stab through the bus windows, but there was no way he was getting any more sleep -- not after the way his eyes had popped open as thoughts of last night's events had spilled into his drowsing mind while he'd tried to ignore his headache enough to fall back asleep. So, he'd gotten up and made himself coffee, but by the time it was ready he was unable to drink it, his stomach twisting unhappily, both from his hangover and from anxiety over the images and emotions crashing through his mind.

He settled for a few tiny sips of water and parked himself at the table, trying to keep his nausea at bay and his head from exploding. There was probably aspirin around somewhere, but finding it would require moving, so that was out.

As Brendon was not expecting to see anyone else for hours, the quiet, "Dude, you look like _shit_ ," took him by surprise. He slitted his eyes open and gingerly rolled them upwards until he could focus on the figure standing over him. Brent looked way too gleeful about Brendon's condition. "If the others weren't sleeping, I would make _so_ much noise right now." Brendon groaned and shut his eyes.

It didn't make Brent go away, though. "Seriously, why are you even up?" Brent continued. "I wouldn't be, either, but I heard you moving around and got up to see what was going on. The party is obviously over, though." There were several moments of silence, and then he sounded much less amused when he said, "Did you even take some Tylenol or aspirin or something?" Hope flaring in his chest, Brendon looked up at Brent with what he hoped was his most appealing and pathetic expression. "Jesus, Urie. What are you, six? All right, hold on." Brent disappeared into the bunks and Brendon closed his eyes again gratefully.

Several long moments later, there was the _clackity-clack_ of pills tumbling onto the table, and the wrong voice said, "Here." Brendon was so startled that he jolted upright way too fast and had to sit with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly until the pain abated. "This is what drinking does to you, you know," Ryan continued conversationally. "It poisons your body. I don't know why anyone would do that to themselves."

Involuntarily cringing as far away from Ryan as he could get, Brendon flinched as Ryan reached over and uncapped Brendon's water bottle. He was not ready for this confrontation, had not had time or faculties enough to even begin to process whatever the fuck it was that had happened between them. Utterly stumped for something to say -- even the wisecrack or insult Brendon would normally fling back at Ryan at this point had deserted him -- Brendon watched Ryan slide into the seat across from him.

"Wow. Jumpy, too," Ryan observed. "I'm thinking you might be the very definition of 'basket case.'" His mouth quirked up in almost-amusement. With a nod to indicate the white tablets on the table, he said, "You should take those. Brent was nice enough to get them for you."

Studying Ryan's face and body language, Brendon could find no trace of anything out of the ordinary in his demeanor -- no anger, no resentment, no embarrassment or awkwardness... nothing to indicate that he even remembered the previous night. Ryan raised his eyebrows at the scrutiny, and Brendon looked away.

"If I do, will you go away?" Without waiting for an answer, Brendon slapped his hand down onto the tabletop, scooping up the pills and slamming them into his mouth. His hand trembled visibly as he picked up the water bottle and his eyes cut to Ryan, knowing it was too much to hope that Ryan hadn't noticed. Ryan frowned, opening his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again. Brendon shut his eyes as he tipped the bottle to his lips and swallowed.

"I only got up to say 'I told you so,'" Ryan said, his tone indifferent. "I know you don't remember, but I did." He reached over and plucked the bottle from Brendon's hand, raising it to his own mouth.

"I remember," Brendon said quietly. He watched Ryan drink. "I remember everything."

It was only because he was looking for it that Brendon saw the tiny jerk in Ryan's otherwise fluid motion as he lowered the bottle to the table, the slight widening of his eyes before his expression carefully smoothed over. "What do you mean?" Ryan asked, his voice as flat as it ever got.

"Everything, Ryan," Brendon answered, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "Last night. _Everything_. I didn't conveniently forget it, like you obviously thought I would."

"Oh." Ryan looked down at the bottle still in his hand, and then back up at Brendon, meeting his eyes with a determined glare. "Well, you might as well forget it, now, because nothing's going to come of it. It shouldn't have happened. It's not going to happen again." Brendon opened his mouth to protest, but Ryan cut him off. "Nothing is as important as the band. It will always come first, and we're not going to do anything to fuck it up." He thumped the bottle down on the table and stood up, looming over Brendon as he hissed, "So, just forget about it." He turned his head to the side and added, "It didn't mean anything, anyway."

Brendon narrowed his eyes. "Liar," he said, and set his jaw as Ryan left him alone in the lounge without even bothering to deny it.

 

 

It became this dance they did; Brendon would push and test and push some more, prodding at Ryan's physical and emotional boundaries until Ryan had had enough and pushed back. Brendon would retreat briefly, and then start the whole cycle over again.

It was not lost on their bandmates -- Spencer would either roll his eyes or ignore them, while Brent pretended not to see it at all, pointedly looking in the other direction. Later, Jon only raised his eyebrows a few times before calmly accepting it as normal.

Eventually, Brendon gave up hoping that he'd manage to wear down Ryan's resistance, but by then the behavior had become habit, and in a weird way, sort of came to define much of their relationship.

When Ryan then walked away from the band that he'd been so careful to protect at all costs for so long, the irony was not lost on Brendon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Brendon bursts into Ryan's music room and blurts, "We're not in a band together anymore."

"That's hardly a news flash, Brendon," Jon drawls, and Brendon doesn't even spare him a glance, keeping his eyes trained on Ryan's face. "That's really what you drove all the way over here to say?"

Ryan is looking at Brendon blankly, fingers still forming a chord between the frets on his guitar. Brendon huffs impatiently. "Ryan, _we're not in the same band_."

Ryan just frowns. "What the fuck are you-- _Oh_ ," he finishes, more breath than voice, and his expression clears, his eyes going wide.

Jon looks from Ryan to Brendon and back again. "Guys. _Seriously?_ " Ryan shoots a glare at him and Jon throws up his hands in a warding off gesture. "Okaaaaay. I'm. I'll just..." he says as he heads for the doorway. "I'll just be... yeah," he finishes and, obviously fighting a grin, he ducks past Brendon and vanishes down the hall.

"I don't know what you expect me to do with this," Ryan says, distractedly adjusting the pitch of a guitar string. "You're kind of assuming a lot, aren't you?"

"I..." Brendon frowns, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He's not sure what he expected from Ryan -- probably not sudden, passionate kisses, or anything. Probably. But not this coolly detached, confrontational Ryan, either.

And, fuck, now he feels like an idiot, racing all the way over here and, yes, he probably _was_ assuming a lot, what with time and distance, and whatever. Brendon feels himself flush, hot with embarrassment and anger, anger at himself for his stupidity, at Ryan for being a cold bastard, standing there tuning his fucking guitar while Brendon drowns in humiliation. He's not even looking at Brendon; he's just going on about how he and Jon are in the middle of recording demos, and how Brendon's leaving on tour in a few days, and how it's not like they have any time for a relationship right now, anyway, and, _Wait -- what?_

"Wait -- what?" Bewildered, Brendon claws his hair back off his forehead and Ryan finally looks at him, his stare dark and intense. Brendon has to fight the impulse to step back as Ryan takes three long strides, stepping into Brendon's space, crowding him with his guitar and his body. It's like a poetic reversal of all those times that Brendon accosted Ryan onstage, all up in his face and practically grinding against his leg or his guitar, or whatever part of him was most easily accessible. But that was performance, done for effect, and this is...

Brendon holds his breath wondering whether this, like those other times, is just teasing. Ryan's face is giving nothing away as he stares at Brendon and casually strums a chord, then another. Just when Brendon is ready to shove him away in frustration, Ryan drops his gaze, looking down at Brendon's mouth, and for one electric moment, Brendon is sure Ryan is going to kiss him. The air seems to crackle between them, and then Ryan looks back up and says, simply, "Call me when you get back from tour."

He backs away, and Brendon exhales. Only from years of experience can Brendon see the smile in Ryan's eyes that he resolutely keeps off his lips. "Asshole," Brendon breathes, and doesn't miss the smirk that curls Ryan's mouth before he turns his back, absorbed in his guitar once again and clearly done with the conversation.

Brendon is rooted where he stands, stunned into immobility by the dawning realization of what they have -- more or less -- decided that they are going to embark upon. They may not have a band in common to worry about anymore, but it's still going to be messy, and complicated by almost four years of emotional baggage. He feels a little dizzy with it, awash with almost crippling relief to know that, even after all this time, Ryan still wants him.

Taking in the long line of Ryan's back, the familiar curve of his spine and slope of his shoulders as he cradles his guitar, Brendon is abruptly and violently _done_ with denial. The need to touch and a barrage of suddenly unrestrained emotion floods through him, and he surges forward, wrapping his arms around Ryan's ribcage. Ryan stiffens under his touch, going still for the space of a long breath before relaxing into the circle of Brendon's arms. Calloused fingers find and grasp Brendon's forearm, holding tightly as Brendon buries his face in Ryan's shoulder and just breathes him in.

It's not enough; it's not nearly enough to stand there, pressed together and breathing in tandem, and Brendon has to push down a spike of sheer _want_ that stabs through him, slicing its way through the tumble of feelings that he can't even begin to sort through. It's not enough, but it will have to do -- _just for now_ , Brendon tells himself -- and when he feels like he can breathe on his own again, Brendon lets go, steps back.

He feels cold from his chest to his knees, his body mourning the loss of contact. When he turns to go, neither of them says a word, but the silence feels full of promise.

By the time he reaches the front door, Brendon is practically bounding out of the house and down the steps, squinting into the bright, hazy blue of the sky over Topanga Canyon as he heads for his car. The warmth of the sun on his face feels good in a way it hasn't in a long time.

* 

"You are the biggest idiot I know," Spencer informs him as he steps into the house.

Brendon just shrugs. "So you've said. Why this time specifically, though?"

"Jon called," Spencer answers, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh." Brendon feels his face go hot and suddenly becomes very interested in the pile of mail that Spencer left on the coffee table, sitting on the couch to sift through it. Halfway home from Ryan's, Brendon had started trying to think of a way to explain the turn of events to Spencer, and when he came up empty-handed, he decided to postpone telling him anything at all until he'd had a chance to think it through more thoroughly. Fucking Jon Walker.

He's staring blankly at an envelope when he realizes that Spencer is still talking to him. "Seriously, Brendon. I don't know if you're dumber for only just now having this ridiculous epiphany, or for deciding to _act_ on it." Spencer sounds pissed, but the glance that Brendon risks in his direction reveals Spencer's expression to be one of fond exasperation. "Or, even for not acting on it _years_ ago. I don't know. Fuck." Spencer heaves a sigh of the long-suffering sort. "Okay. So, tell me what Ryan's reaction was to your... Shit, I want to say 'proposition,' but that just sounds so _wrong. So_ , so wrong." He makes a strangled, inarticulate sound, and Brendon can't help but hide a grin. "Your _idea_ ," Spencer substitutes, and then waves a hand around like he's trying to erase a distasteful mental image. "Fuck it, just tell me what he said."

Brendon is almost enjoying this, now. Usually, it takes a lot more effort on his part to make Spencer this uncomfortable. "Well, at first he was just confused, but when I explained how we're not in the same band anymore, he caught on, and then, well." Throwing the envelope back on the table, Brendon fixes his gaze on his hands as he laces his fingers together. "He wants to go for it," he finishes quietly.

"Oh, my God," Spencer says.

Brendon flashes his most evil grin. "And then, we had wild, gay, monkey sex. The end."

"Oh, my _God_. Fuck you, you did not."

"Okay, we did not," Brendon tells him, smiling sweetly. "Yet." Spencer looks vaguely ill, so Brendon congratulates himself on a job well done and bounces up and off the couch. "Where are Dallon and Ian, anyway?"

"They're in the backyard playing with your dog. Because we ran out of things to do without you. Because you vanished, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively. "I'll go let them know I'm back." He turns to leave the room, but stops, suddenly aware of the very empty state of his belly. "I'm starving, though... I vote food and videos before practice. Hey, you going to call for pizza?" he asks hopefully when Spencer slides his phone out of his pocket.

"No, I'm going to call the biggest idiot I know."

Brendon frowns. "I thought _I_ was the biggest idiot you know."

"Yeah, well." Spencer looks up from under his eyebrows. "Did you, or did you not have to enlighten Ryan with the fact that you're in different bands, now?"

"Oh," Brendon laughs. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Spencer echoes, tapping at his phone.

"You should call for pizza, first."

"Call for your own damn pizza. I've got important things to do, here."

"All right, all right. Somehow, I don't think that's a conversation I want to hear, so I'll just..." Spencer's already ignoring him as Brendon gestures toward the doorway, so he makes his exit and heads for the back of the house. Before he's out of ear-shot, he hears Spencer's voice say, "Hey, congratulations. You're now the biggest idiot I know." Grinning, Brendon makes his way toward the back door to ask the other guys what they want on their pizza, and possibly to rescue them from the never-ending game of "fetch" that Bogart has undoubtedly insisted upon.

Brendon is also working on the kernel of a plot to sabotage rehearsal for the rest of the day. They're practically ready, anyway; the guys are awesome, they're going to do great, and the tour will be amazing. He feels his stomach dip a little at the thought of touring, both from excitement and from trepidation about their first tour without Jon and Ryan. As soon as that thought is complete, his stomach flutters again at the thought of what waits for him at the _end_ of the tour.

Yeah, practice is definitely out for awhile; his concentration is shot. Tomorrow he'll be an adult again (kind of) and all responsible and stuff (mostly), but tonight, a bit of a celebration is in order.

On this day, Brendon is no longer the biggest idiot that Spencer knows, and that -- at the very least of many things (Brendon is starting a list) -- is worth celebrating.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


End file.
